


The Traitor

by kyloewok



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Basically Non-con, Being a slave is not equal to consent, Blood Play, Consent is always key, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Degradation, Dehumanization, Delirious!Reader, Double Penetration, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Face-Fucking, Flesh carving, Forced Handjobs, Gang Rape, Gangbang, Inappropriate Use of the Force, Kidnapping, Knife Play, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Non-Consensual Bondage, Orgy, Overstimulation, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Slavery, Situational Humiliation, Slapping, depictions of torture, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29502225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: Dating the prestigious Knight of Ren, Vicrul, had advantages when you spent your drab life as a sex slave in a slummy Pleasure House. He made you happy. Only for that happiness to be ripped away when he never returns to the Pleasure House to visit you: leaving you heartbroken and vengeful. In an attempt of revenge, you spread information about the First Orders schemes...And when the vile Kylo Ren hears about your slander and orders a visit with you, you know you're in for the punishment of a true traitor.
Relationships: Knights of Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	The Traitor

Word spread around the village like a wildfire: brisk, torrid, and alerting every trivial civilian, a flame of fear consuming each individual that once lived peacefully on the neutral plains of Mina Bonteri. 

The notorious First Order was under the reign of a new Supreme Leader, and everyone had fabricated the idea that the new ruler— Kylo Ren— had Snoke beat at the dirty game of immorality. He always lugged around a... ravenous, poignant disposition. Things have escalated since the unforeseen death of Snoke, and his reputation had only ascended the ladder of cruelty. 

His evil enigma was known amongst the Galaxy, memorized, by those that dreaded the loathing Supreme Leader and his clan of ominously promising men. 

The words of anarchy, that you spread, were saturating the village in a pandemic-like state of heedfulness and vigilance. Everyone was painstakingly alert, observant. On their tiptoes, anticipating the moment havoc would be inflicted upon the surface of your bleak planet. 

You were guilt-ridden by the panic you had stirred by simply transmitting the detrimental information you enquired... from a man that worked amongst the First Order, with recalcitrant ties to the Supreme Leader himself. 

Vicrul Ren. Prestigious, liable clansman of the Knights of Ren. A trusted member of the dark alliance Kylo Ren had formed under the influence of Snoke. He started as one of your regulars: your occupation as a sex worker involved copious amounts of frequent visitors, but you harbored endearment for Vicrul specifically.

He was different. Despite his menacing reputation abroad the walls of the Pleasure House, he was tender and benign, in a way. He would pay double, just to spend time with you after you... well, pleasured him. He listened to you ramble and complain about your drab, degrading life as a woman bound to sex slavery, as if you were linked to it with barbed wire, anchored by fate. 

Vicrul succumbed to the feelings that he had sprouted for you before you could even fabricate yours. You both harbored immense, inadmissible emotions for one another. Therefore leading to an ultimatum to be embellished. The relationship between you was declared confidential, even though anyone with a pair of eyes that sauntered into the doors of the Pleasure House could notice your lovestruck-behaviors. 

He ordered a visitation with you once a week, if his diplomatic rule under the First Order granted him the spare time. You spent genial time with him, not only engaging in sexual affairs. 

The thrill of your relation sizzled out shortly after the relationship blossomed to begin with. The schedule of his duties, and your non-commutable job in general, started to test his patience. Men of his breed were tetchy about things. 

In the long run, he had his fun, luring you in with his coaxes, even though through the perception of his emerald-green irises, you were just his personal rag-doll that had been piped and worn to the very foundation that had rendered you. 

He got bored of you. When his world was as coruscating and abysmal as it was, it was simple for a drab sex worker with a pitiful life spent shackled to the stone walls of a tarnished sex-club to bore him. 

Vicrul Ren never returned to your chamber, for an evening filled with laughter and quips, nor for the pure source you truly were, a slave for him to abuse with his starving carnal needs. He simply vanished, and the bliss you endured in your short-lived bubble of happiness vanished along with the cryptic man himself. 

You adapted to your sensual, agile routine as a feeble sex-slave once he was gone. Things were darker than before, though. The special treatment you were appeased with by your owner was only temporary like Vicrul was. Now that the Supreme Leaders right-hand man refused to visit the Pleasure House, the blame was pined on you for scaring away Beeka's wealthiest customer. 

Beeka sentenced you longer nights amongst the dehumanizing stage of the club. Where the air reeked of poisonous concoctions and stale cologne, and where the men barked obscenities that stirred the thinning of your blood and the malice that coated your heart. Nights were spent flashing a crowd of bawdy men as you twirled in sultry ways beneath the neon glow of invigorating lights. Days were spent rotting in shackles and a grimy cell, where you hummed your desolation away in anticipation for your next client. 

When a client waltzed into your designated sector for pleasuring, you indulged him with sexual release in exchange for a futilely low ransom of credits. From there your credits were collected by your owner, Beeka. He claims he deserves the credits you earn because he: "Tames the ragged bitches." 

The craving for vengeance throbbed within your core like a swelling tumor. Not only for Beeka, or the regular clients that blatantly harmed you. For Vicrul. You wanted revenge. He molded you into a servant for his love, only to whip you with lies, similar to the leather one that Beeka threatens you and the other girls with if you lack compliance. 

And vengeance came free, when Vicrul had already set himself up for disaster that would be detrimental for his fate. He had spoken openly about the First Orders ploys for the Galaxies fascist future ahead. He presumed that with your devotion to him, and your imprisonment amongst the club, there would be no way for his word to spread.

You had outside sources. All you had to do was coax a client into conversing with you about modern politics. It was as simple as that. You 'accidentally' let the information— that could make or break the First Orders nefarious plans— slip. And it was already done. That customer would blabber to the next. That customer would sputter the gossip to his pals over a glass of whiskey at the bar. Word would traverse from there, and Vicrul would be in ruins. 

Little did you know, that you were subjected to the same fate that you had curated for Vicrul. 

────────────────────────────

Beeka commanded your name. Barked it through a glower. There was a hint of... heedfulness in his tone. Reluctance. His approach was wavering as he pried the velvet drapes margining your chamber open. 

"Get up, skank." He hissed, poking his scaly, humanoid head in, as you staggered up. Your shackles clanked, rubbing your skin raw as the cold metal jerked. "Clean ya'self up. You have an important visitor today, requested ya' specifically. Bitchin' bout you up front." 

A ripple surfaced in your brow, sweat beading and dripping off of the skin underneath it. Beeka waltzed into your chamber, idly kicking around any momentum of your poor-living condition. He aggressively grappled with the steel restraints bound to your wrists. He grumbled curses to himself as he unclasped the cuffs, leaving them to dangle unyieldingly from the rusting rack of pipes mounted to the wall. 

You kneaded the blotches of purple and fading yellows that tainted your skin, eyeing Beeka cautiously. "W-who?" You murmured meekly. 

"Fucks' sake, shut that trap mouth!" He hollered at you, and you flinched as his navally voice scolded you. "You good for nothin', just a cheap cumbucket." 

You were accustomed to his disgusting words. When he pivoted away from you, you glared at him with a snarl so cold it could freeze a flaming rod of steel. His greasy, stout figure waddled out of your chamber without another word. Thundering complaints as he strolled away with a yap. 

You adjusted the lace-embroidered lingerie that garbed your sensual frame. The scandalous black attire cladding your descollage was diminutive— lascivious and eye-appealing. An array of makeup candied your face, with a swoop of mascara to clump up your lashes and a brand of nude lipstick to cake your busy lips. Your freshly combed locks were free and styled to be down and accessible for your clients. Nearly every single man fostered the tendency to sniff your hair, by impulse. When customers with expendable kinks for the scent of hair started showing up, Beeka banned updos or any style that denied the client access to your hair. 

Leather garners adorned your legs, paired with black fishnets that left zagged indents into your flesh in all of the supple spots it clung to. Black pumps guarded your feet from the repulsive men with foot fetishes: and believe it or not, there were an abundance of them that entered the Pleasure House in search of a foot to lick up. You were forged to submit to any kink your client may have, though, including foot fetishes if that were relevant to your customer. 

The clack of heavy boots reverberated around the hall just outside of your curtain. Loud, hefty and minacious. The squeals of fellow sex workers lingered, as the scampering of feet paired with their shrieks. You disregarded them, assuming it was just another threat from Beeka that elicited that reaction. 

You were catastrophically wrong.

Plowing through the velvet drapes that offered you little solitude, the ravenously built man eyed you with a glint of resentment. His frame was monstrous, hulking, a slab of muscle garbed in black cloaks and a gnarly scent of desolation.

Your frittering heart was lodged in your throat, pulsing with a persistent, petrified thump. Blood streamed to your face, your cheeks scorning with a flame of pure terror. Your eyes raked in the expanse of his heaving chest, his pulsating neck, before locking on his grueling face. 

It was the Supreme Leader. 

Every form of life that habilitated the Galaxy could determine the carrier of that diabolical, glorious face. Those whiskey-honey eyes that were molten like molasses, pooling a deadly venom, gleaming ominously with spite. That prominent aqualine nose twitching in fury and betrayal. 

Those plush lips housed a pink sneer that could curdle dairy. His monotonous voice was deep and titillating as he growled your name through gritted teeth, tilting his head by a minuscule to observe the way you jolted out of your own shell.

"The girl I've heard so much about." He sneers, eyeing you up with hostility, drinking in your immodest personnel. 

You were frozen. Limbs immobile, breaths ricocheting inside of your chest. You swallowed the lump kindling in your throat. Mimicking an aghast deer caught in the headlights. 

"I'm s-sorry Supreme Leader, but I don't know what you're referring to..." You feigned obliviousness. Words scratched at your dry throat, only to die feebly, vanquished by the lack of saliva you produced. 

He invited himself into your chamber. Circling you with calculated strides, eyeing you predatorily, as if you were the victim to his heinous claws and his sharpened canines. As if he were the Lion, and you, the poor lamb. 

Your clammy digits quivered at your side. Nails plucking at your cuticles. Your eyes were sheepishly trained on his. Not out of bravery, but out of fear for the consequence if you dared look away. 

His expression was solemn and lethargic. As if he was everything but impressed with the sensual lack-of-clothing that garnered your appealing body. He nearly looked appalled, offended, as the ghost of a grimace lingered on his mouth. 

"We're dancing on technicalities here." His voice was boisterous. Guttural and stoic. His default facade that was warped with all things malevolent never relenting. "You know what I've come for. You'll submit. Or you'll take it the hard way." 

You supplied him with a meek nod. There were no words that you could muster that would save you from the wrath of Kylo Ren. 

An invisible force sweeped you off of your feet. Body plummeting into the cement ground. Knees wobbly and bruised from the impact, as you bleated out a signal of distress. 

He shucked his cape away from his broad hip, fumbling with his utility belt. His leather clad hand ripped the hilt of a hefty weapon from his belt. The weapon that chafed, and slashed, and impaled on countless occasions. 

You cowered and trembled as you peered up at him through hooded eyes. The tips of his boots deliberately connected with your knees. His brawny build and menacing aroma only a tantalizing foot away. 

The crimson flame fused from the hilt and you stifled a yelp, as the blazing tip hovered only an inch away from your nose, your skin threatening to melt and liquify from the nefarious heat. 

The heat of his lightsaber would never amount to the sting of his diabolical smirk, though.

Your bottom lip wobbled. "I- I didn't mean to ruin your plans. It won't happen again." Your breathy voice trembled pathetically. 

The Supreme Leader let out a husky snicker. His cowl clad chest rumbled with his dark chuckle, as he swivels the fiery sword of his saber to be resting merely an inch away from your throat. The scarlet pique of his lightsaber glistened in his blackened, depraved shark eyes, as he scowled down at you. 

"It's too late for mercy." He snarled, his nostrils flaring acutely. "But you'll be pleading for something else soon." 

His gloved hand intertwined with a bushel of your hair with the excruciating grip of a vice. His crooked teeth barred together. The invisible force mounting your body into position strengthened. An anguishing throb persisted your brain and you grimaced, seething in pain. 

"Poor little girl." He tsked blatantly, his gruff voice hefty with dark, diverting charm. "At this rate, you'll be dead in a matter of minutes." 

The crimson flame crackled and you howled out a weak cry as the sparks brushed the flesh of your neck. "So what's it going to be, Kitten?" He feigned a coo, his fingers feathering through your hair. He maliciously yanked you back, your chin craning towards the ceiling. "Are you going to submit to your Supreme Leader? Or shall I just take what I want from you instead?" 

You clamored, your body rapturing and the sensibility of your mind going fried. "I submit!" You bleated through strained breaths, tears spilling down your ruby-flushed cheeks. 

The agonizing, crushing force sheathing your brain vanished. The invisible embrace around your body disappeared. Your trembling body collided with the grimy cement, as you peered up at him with glossy doe eyes. He diffused his lightsaber, clipping it back to his belt, as he prowled around you methodically. 

Then, the force returned: a torrid pressure sent you plummeting into the wall. A scream crawled up your throat, as your back slammed into the scalloped duracrete wall of your cell. The Supreme Leaders head simply tilted to follow your body as it wisped by briskly. 

His malignancy was tactile, radiating off of him in hot spurts of revolt. His expression was deadpan as he watched you helplessly thrash and squirm. Pinned to the wall by a non-perceptible apparition. 

Your body palpitated with a conjunction of fear and anticipation. He strode his way over to you guilefully. Prudently. As if he was clairvoyant, the curator of your fate. As if he knew every moment to come like the back of his calloused hand. 

His approach was menacing. Evil. He reeked of all things sadistic and ignoble. If the Devil had a scent, it would be the cologne that feasted on the Supreme Leaders dark robes. 

There was no time to calculate his next action before the sting already burned upon your cheek. His hand had collided with your face, sending your head whipping to the side. Volts of tingles ricocheted in the wake of his forceful slap. Then the burn of warm leather returned. Once, twice, an umpteenth amount of times. Until your cheeks were numb and swollen, and your neck was sore from wacking from side to side. 

You mewled out a heedful whine and the corner of his plump lips twitched upwards in satisfaction. "Poor little Kitten..." He cooed with faux empathy, his voice laced with abhorrence. His gloved hand that was hot from the impact of his smacks caressed the welts surfacing on your skin. 

You purred, his knuckles studying the length of your cheeks gingerly, before his fingers captured your chin and pinched. Angling your scarlet face towards his, as he folded at the waist and leveled his brooding face with yours. 

"Let's try the other side." He murmured in that deep, tantalizing tone. 

His fingers abandoned your jaw and twirled in an abrupt gesture at his side: sending you pivoting around, your stomach wedged into the wall, limbs stretching and opening for his own access. 

He wasted no time before fondling with your ass. Groping them with aggressive kneads, those leather fingertips digging into your flesh. He growled in approval when you jutted your ass back into his clutches. 

He supplied you with an abundance of wrathful spanks to the rear. They grew harder and vigorous with each venomous slap. You wailed out croaky sighs and whines, your body wincing every time those leather garbed hands laid a strike upon your ass. 

Once he was satisfied with the bubbling, raw surface of your ass, he housed three backhand slaps on the puffy flesh just for good measure. Little did you know, that each tormented moan you croaked out was sending waves of infatuation straight to his groin. A lustful heat scorning the innards of his muscular thighs.

There was an appending amount of silence, as he loomed over you observantly. Drinking in the submission and agony that emitted from you in sweet, intoxicating fumes of fear. You whimpered and latched onto the wall like a leech, the sweat of inclination matting you to the bricks. 

You had only a second to recover from the torture that your ass had just amounted to, before something warm and blissful teased your entrance. It was pressurized air. The hefty air swirled around your cunt, caressing your slit, and you stifled a perplexed moan. 

"Ah." He clicked his tongue dauntingly. "You like that, hm? Does that feel good?" 

You nodded, as the pressure increased, prodding at your entrance. You bucked your hips into the pleasuring phenomenon. The air started to lap up the wetness leaking from your core, dragging your juices to your clit. 

"You fucking bitch." He sneered, the force deliberately plucking and massaging your clit as you moaned. "You don't even realize how much chaos you have conjured, just by simply blabbering that whore mouth of yours."

The force picked up its pace, flicking your clit with precision, and your legs stammered as you choked down any proof of your arousel. He flipped you back over, your back molding into the wall, as you slide down to your knees due to the accord of his miraculous powers. 

As the force continued rubbing your clit, it started to pry at your folds. It abruptly began to thrust into you, your walls expanding for the invisible force that replicated fingers. You gasped, as the force sunk into you at a rabid speed, working and stimulating your clit. 

The hand controlling the pleasure was dangling stiffly at his side. The other snatched your jaw, pinching your cheeks, propping your mouth open. "Pathetic Kitten." He glowered the words bitterly, collecting a wad of spit in the back of his throat and blasting you in the face with it. 

The saliva that missed your mouth drizzled down your face. It was warm and sudsy, trickling down your cheek, as you purred and devoured the tingling sensation brewing in your core. The fear that bubbled in your gut was being abolished by the bliss replacing it.

The pleasure was ripped away from you when the hilt of his lightsaber rammed into your jaw, a sickening crack following his antagonistic action. The metallic taste of blood lapped on your tongue, as an array of colorful dots peppered your starry vision. The swollen area throbbed audaciously, as blood tumbled from your lips, and you howled out in pain. 

The saber rested on your jaw. The pad of his thumb hovered over the button that would cause it to fuse and crackle. "You thought that vengeance would come easy? When it came to the First Order?" He spat words of venom, as if they discarded an appalling taste upon his tongue. "Poor Kitten... you'll be shattered once I've had my way with you." 

Blood pooled on your lingerie as it spilled from your lips. He swiped it up with his thumb, thrusting it past your lips, gagging you with the puddle of burgundy that had escaped your mouth. A string of red saliva connected your lips to his fingers. 

Once again, he clipped his lightsaber to the designated spot on his utility belt. His gloved fingers fiddled with the zipper clasping his taut black pants together. He circled his red, throbbing shaft— that was jeering a bulge through his trousers— and opened his free palm in front of your mouth. 

"Spit." He demanded. His dark eyebrows forming an earnest hardline. 

You obliged without reluctance, glaring up at him as you spit into his palm, a puddle of red saliva pooling in the crevices of his glove.

He untucked his swollen shaft, and you nearly drooled as the yearning pink tip glistened with a welcoming coat of precum. His palm that harvested your spit curled around his massive cock. He fisted it teasingly, hissing in pleasure, as he pumped himself slowly, eyeing you up with malice. 

"Open that mouth wide, Kitten." He ordered, and you complied without haste, propping your sore mouth open. 

His cock jumped as it neared your mouth. The tip caressed your lips. Smearing his precum around your mouth, before he took you by a chunk of your tousled hair and rammed his shaft past your lips. 

You gurgled, as he relentlessly plowed his monstrous girth down your throat. You managed to bob your head just enough to aid him, even though his hips rutted into your sweaty face with little to no regards on if you were even breathing. 

Droplets of mascara tainted tears, and blood, splattered on the floor and stained your cheeks as you whined into his cock. Your tongue was numb, as his cock coasted in and out, grazing your inner cheeks aggressively. 

The tip collided with the back of your throat, as he grunted in pleasure and fucked your face until your lips were raw and puffy and your throat was scorned. 

He abruptly jerked your head away from his cock, drool spilling from your lips as your fatigued eyes darted up to his in befuddlement. You panted hoarsely like a damned dog. Cheeks scarlet, lips bruised, eyes glossy and bloodshot. Mind discombobulated. 

Those honeycomb eyes raked in the sight of your vulnerability. You searched for a glimpse of empathy in his ravenous gaze, only to be rewarded with nothing, other than his scrutinizing stare in return.

The force bondage evaporated. Your joints were free. You wrung out your wrists arduously, wiggling your toes to alleviate the tautness of your muscles. He barked out a condescending laugh when he observed your hopeful avail. 

"How adorable." He mused, with a patronizing edge to his dark tone. "I was only testing the waters, Kitten. It's time for you to undergo the treatment of a true traitor." 

His words chimed like infernal bells in your dazed mind, the deplorable dings ricocheting around your dreary, pulsating brain. 

Your weak body became pliable at this point: peeling off of the tarnished cement with the next lethargic wave of his gloved hand. You pummeled across your dimly lit cell, your frame being lurched into your creaky cot.

His mundane demeanor unsettled you, as he strode over to your cot with ethical stomps. They were nearly tedious. Building the longing up brick by brick. Your limbs were reacquainted with the force restraints: this time molding your figure on its own accord. 

You were scooped up by the force, your limbs being tampered and tugged into a position that could represent a starfish. Face mushed into the sheets, back arching, ass pointing to the chipping ceilings overhead. Arms extended and pinned into the cot. 

There was silence for a long time. All you could hear were your labored breaths as they wafted back into your face. You attempted to thrash out of the invisible grasp pinning you down, only for it to be useless. You contemplated asking the Supreme Leader himself for assistance, but he would only abolish your pride with a snarky remark. 

"S-sir?" You rasped. Nothing.

All you could hear was the shuffling of boots, and the gritty mumbles of masculine voices from beyond the drapes of your cell. 

The luminescent light from the hallway peaked through the curtains as they were forcefully drawn. Heavy thuds of boots: not one pair, nor two, nor three. But six. The skid of their collective, leisure strides echoed around your brittle bones. Your heart stammered in your chest, your body shuddering in trepidation. 

The Knights of Ren.

The atmosphere was bawdy, brisk, their colossal presences filling the room and thickening the air to be a thousand ions staler and hotter than it was before they surfaced through the compact cell. 

"Have your way with her." The Supreme Leader commanded, a heap of inflamed murmurs eliciting from the assemble of aroused men.

"Leave some for me." He acknowledged them, before accounting you. "You'll have me last, Kitten. Don't fall apart without me."

You envisioned him glaring at all of the Knights, as you heard the way they shifted from foot to foot. 

"She's all yours." He subtly mused.

The men pounced without haste. 

First, you were stripped bare of any fabric that clung onto your body. 

Hands were fondling with your ass. Groping your tits. Roughly caressing every crevice and curve of your body. You glimpsed every miscellaneous mask, as the drab helmets stared back at you lifelessly. Their hands were full of vitality, though, as they explored you like you were a slab of fresh meat, and they were the starving wolves indulging in a feast after their thrilling hunt. 

Your body was overstimulated by the amounts of fingers prying and clawing at your skin. They all argued over different portions of your body, as if you truly were just an inanimate object designed for pleasure. Just a hole to be ransacked. It was dehumanizing and exhilarating all at once. 

The moment came once all of them were situated amongst the parts of your body that they would annihilate. 

One was located in the prized spot: underneath your body, lodged into your cunt. Gloved hands grappling at your hips as he rammed his cock up into you and forced you to ride him. Obliterating your insides with each thrust. Another mans cock was housed in your backside, stretching your tight hole with his big dick, hissing breathy curses through the modulator of his mask. 

The others cock was sheltered in your aching mouth, jaw slack as you accommodated to the unfamiliar Knights vigorous thrusts down your throat. Your whole body was bouncing as two cocks filled your lower half, the other cramming into your mouth mercilessly. 

Both of your hands were bound to two other cocks. One of them fucked your fist, pumping his dick into your faltering grasp, as your body convulsed with pleasure and agony. You lazily glided your hand up and down the other shaft, as raspy, masculine groans filtered the air. 

Cum splattered on different origins of your body. Yours, and the Knights. It leaked from your core. It squirted around your condensed bodies. It lapped up on your body when it sprayed in white jets from their busy cocks. 

Your wheezy moans and breathy screams of bliss and severe pain were nearly drowned out by the exuberant fap of cocks plowing through and into you. You were on the verge of fainting, as dehydration and overstimulation worked your bustling, writhing body. 

The Knight that fucked your face finished after the men pleasuring themselves with your fists did, leaving his creamy seed to drip down your chin and collide into the helmet below you. You raked in air greedily, snorting in the warm, erotic scent of sex. 

The Knight below you plucked off his helmet, and if you would've been sober of the immense torture being inflicted upon your body, you would've cried at the sheer sight of Vicrul as he fucked himself up into you with loud grunts. His hands clasped both of your cheeks, his tongue slipping into your agape mouth, kissing you with raw passion and spite. 

"You fucking bitch." He growled into the hateful kiss, snagging your bottom lip, eliciting more blood to flow from your mouth as it coated his face in a downpour of crimson and the other mans cum. 

"Look what you made us do, hm?" He rasped with hostility, his cock pounding into you harder, nearly sending you into your fourth oblivion of euphoria. "Naughty slut." 

He angled his head in peculiar ways to take your bloody tongue into his mouth deeper, as your tears and blood mingled to drizzle all over his face. Beads of scarlet slithered down his straining neck, as you zoned in on Vicrul and the rapturing kiss, nearly forgetting that three other men were pillaging you with their own dicks. 

You moaned into his mouth, your body jolting and clamoring on top of his, rocking back and forth forcefully. Everybody was starting to descend their orgasmic highs, slowing the paces of their thrusts. Vicrul hit his peak last, his broad arms embracing your body with the grasp of a vice, pumping his seed deep within your core as he groaned through gritted teeth. 

As he recovered from his climax and relentlessly pulled out of you, your eyes caught his for a moment, and something somber gleamed in his emerald specks. That look was replaced by fury and betrayal in the matter of seconds, as he shoved you off of him and stumbled off of the cot. 

You were immobile. Trembling, quaking, as all of the sensitive parts of your body throbbed and belched in agony. Every inch of you was overstimulated and feeble by the lightest of touches. You squirmed in the sheets, rasping a series of slurred whines and sobs, feeling beaten and deprived of vitality. Used. Torn. 

Vicrul brought his helmet over his head, only to hesitate before slipping it on. "You're a fucking traitor. A disgrace to the First Order." He sneered wickedly, before spitting down on you, and latching his helmet on as it hissed and thunked itself into place. 

He left without another word. The rest of the Knights reluctantly followed. A couple of them stirred heedfully and even glanced at you from over your shoulder with what you presumed to be remorse. They waddled out of the room regardless, not even granting you any reassurance or praise for your infidelity. 

If you wouldn't have been able to feel the persistent pounding of your heart drumming against your ribcage, you would've sworn you were dead. Your brain was scrambled mush, incapable of producing a coherent thought. 

You thought the torture was over: you prayed that it was. Only, there were no Gods nor genies to grant you your biddings when you coveted them in this insidious Galaxy. 

Things only escalated. Just when you thought you had produced enough blood and cries, the Supreme Leader emerged from the drapes nearly cautiously, as if he was abiding by your worn-down state. Mollifying you in a way. 

Your senses were haywire and off-key, but you could render the warmth of his gloved hand as it caressed your cheek... softly? You instinctively recoiled at the touch that inflicted this pain upon you, jolting when static zapped your broken body from the swift movement.

"I see they've left you... alive..." He considered with a grunt, cocking his head. "Kitten." 

You mustered a nearly unintelligible hum when he beckoned your title. Eyes taped shut. Sweat-clad face scrunching at him. 

"What lesson have you learned?" He demanded. His deep voice was a coo.

If you were stable enough, you would state your devotion and understanding to the First Order. You would even bow before him. But you couldn't even open your swollen, bloodied mouth, or lift a limb without the muscles cracking and bleating. 

You only slurred out grumbled jibberish, and a smug smirk splayed on his lips. He released something sharp and reflective from his cloak, tilting it to allow the auburn gleaming lights that flickered overhead to catch onto the silver surface. 

"Mm." He huffed. "You've learned your lesson. But I'm not completely finished with you yet."

He rolled you over blatantly, and you only whined as he laid you flat on your stomach. A keen blade grazed the back of your thigh and you jolted, incapable of screaming. You were numb to the sharpness, anyways. 

He carved diligently. You could feel the blood trickling down your flesh, cascading all the way down to your sheets. He embedded fleshy... words? Into your skin. Humming once he was satisfied with his work. 

He beckoned his Knights with a gruff holler, and the scamper of their boots caused your gut to churn with revolt and fear. 

"Carry her to the shuttle." He ordered them, and you limply succumbed to the grasps of the Knights as they all lulled you out of your cot. You were faint in the brawny arms of one of his men. "Get her cleaned up." 

They obliged to his orders, all of them billowing through the Pleasure House like the nefarious clan they were. Scaring off the meek, as they hauled around your disfigured, unconscious frame. 

Kylo Ren watched as you disappeared with the group. The rigid, dismantled title 'Traitor' that he had carved, oozed blood from your thigh. The proof of your betrayal forever. An emblem of treachery on the back of your dominant leg. 

Your owner, Beeka, was shouting protests to the Knights as they dragged his most precious slave away. Kylo was feeling generous after the exploits him and his men had bestowed upon you, so he slammed a stack of credits on Beekas desk and mumbled a bleak, "Keep the change." as he strutted out of the Pleasure House with his pride weighing his shoulders, and a new prisoner in the hands of his men.


End file.
